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“For the first few years, things were okay between us,” she says slowly. She takes the new martini from me and has a sip. “I mean… in bed. I wasn’t his first, but he was mine, and I didn’t know any different. Sometimes… he struggled to get an erection. But I assumed that was normal. Men aren’t robots, right? He used to get frustrated and even angry, but I just said it didn’t matter, and that we’d try again later. I figured it wasn’t his fault, and that I had to be patient.”
I lean on the back of the sofa again and sink my hand into my hair. Her face has reddened—she’s embarrassed to admit this, but she obviously needs to talk.
“It got worse as time went on,” she admits. “And gradually I began to realize that he couldn’t get an erection unless I was…” Her gaze flicks to me, then away again. “In control,” she continues carefully.
I have a big mouthful of whisky, half wanting to hear it all, half afraid to listen.
“I think I knew deep down that something was wrong,” she continues, “but he wouldn’t talk about it. Then, six months ago, he went away on a course in Auckland. When he came home, he said he wanted to talk. And he admitted he’d slept with someone else.”
I didn’t expect her to say that. My eyebrows rise.
She gives me a small smile. “I knew you wouldn’t like that bit.”
“He cheated on you?”
“Technically? Apparently not. He said he’d been talking to a sex therapist online, and she put him in touch with a surrogate partner.”
“Sorry, what?”
“It’s another kind of therapist who helps people who are uncomfortable with sex.”
“Okay… And what did she do? I presume it was a she?”
She nods. “She was a specialist.”
“A specialist in what?”
She hesitates. Then she says, “Stuff.”
Outside I can still hear the people down below and music from the bar, but silence falls between us. She looks at me cautiously, obviously embarrassed about going into detail.
“Can you be more specific?” I ask eventually, when it’s clear she’s not going to elaborate.
She fiddles with a pleat of her sari. She’s silent for a long time. And then eventually she admits, “In intimacy issues. They talked about how he felt out of control in bed. And she said she could help by showing him some things…”
“That was nice of her.”
“So they went to bed.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. And she showed him… things.” Her gaze flicks up to mine, then away again.
I think about why she could be nervous about telling me. “Is he into pain?”
“Um… not really. Apparently she called it service-oriented submission.”
We fall quiet again. I’m not shocked. Sex is often about the balance of power, and I understand how Cam might find it helpful to regain control over his past by exploring BDSM roles.
But I’m not concerned about Cam. I’m concerned about Juliette and the effect this is having on her.
“Did he use a condom?” I ask.
“Yes.”
Well, that’s something.
“He said he needed to know whether she could help him get an erection,” she says.
